


Here Comes The Sun

by shallowheart



Category: TOMORROW X TOGETHER | TXT (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Angst, Beomgyu is Hyacinthus, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Hunting, I'm Sorry, ITS CUTER THAN IT SOUNDS FOR MOST OF IT I PROMISE, Kai is Orion, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sad Ending, Soobin is Artemis, Taehyun is Zephyrus, Unrequited Love, Yeonjun is Apollo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25834843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shallowheart/pseuds/shallowheart
Summary: In which a myth runs its course, for better or worse.
Relationships: Choi Beomgyu/Choi Yeonjun, One Sided Kang Taehyun/Choi Beomgyu, Past Choi Soobin/Huening Kai
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Here Comes The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to post this in more than one part because I Felt like it but other than that please enjoy and im so sorry if you know how this goes

As his chariot moves through the sky, clouds swirling around him, Yeonjun spots a small flash of colour amidst a grassy hill. Without him pulling on their reins the four horses go down, bringing him to the ground in front of the colour-turned-human in front of him.

Yeonjun looks down at the smiling mortal.  _ Short _ , he thinks, _ a Spartan _ . The boy is simply dressed, with dark hair and purple robes. He’s holding a bundle of flowers, most of which have fallen to the ground in surprise.

“Who are you?” Yeonjun asks.

“Beomgyu,” the boy breathes, lips beaming, “And you are Apollo.”

His amber eyes meet Yeonjun’s fearlessly, but not worshipping or with hatred. They merely look, and see; nothing more, nothing less. The part of Yeonjun that is prideful, the part that demands respect and worship, is strangely silent.

_ Or _ , Yeonjun ponders as Beomgyu holds up one of the flowers in his hands,  _ not so strangely _ . He takes the flower, rolls it around in his palm, and thinks it is not dissimilar to the boy in front of him, with its purple dress and delicate appearance.

He says as much. Beomgyu flushes, but his foot kicks the ground, prompting one of his horses (Eous, he can tell) to do the same. “I am not a flower, though I thank you for the compliment.”

“And I thank you for the flower,” Yeonjun says, bowing his head, “Though I have nothing to offer but the compliment. If you will not take it, then I must ask what else you would want.”

“I require nothing,” Beomgyu responds, “I require nothing, but I would like some company, if you can spare it.”

Yeonjun looks around. He looks at the windblown field, at the flowers strewn across the ground, at the clear sky, and finally at Beomgyu, who looks up at him with the same wide stare that expects nothing and everything.

“I think I can,” Yeonjun answers, and steps off his chariot.

* * *

“I heard you are courting another mortal,” Soobin says. Yeonjun grimaces, peering up at him from behind his arm, lying on top of the loveseat. Nowadays he isn't even able to rest his eyes.

“He is a friend,” is all he gives, but it’s more than enough. Soobin sits down at his feet, leaning on the armrest.

Soobin raises an eyebrow, “For now.”

Yeonjun does not know whether to agree or not.

“You know how these things go with you,” Soobin continues, “He must be special, for you to postpone his doom.”

“‘His doom’,” Yeonjun chortles, although without real laughter, “You make my love akin to a curse.”

Soobin doesn’t correct him, eyes glimmering with a rare curiosity, “What is his name?”

“Beomgyu,” Yeonjun says after a long moment, “And also Hyacinthus.”

“He sounds familiar,” Soobin mutters, “Is he not Clio’s boy? The demigod?”

“And if he is?” Yeonjun’s voice is dry and terse, “What does it matter to you? Do you plan to protect him from me, take him into your Hunters?”

"It is not only him I am worried about," Soobin is half as cryptic as he tries to be. Yeonjun feels a flare of defensiveness.

"Do you not know your place?," he seethes, "What right do you have to lecture me about my choices when you have blood on your own hands?"

He has only half a second to regret it before Soobin's eyes flash, face morphing into stone, "What right have you to bring  _ him _ into this? I think it is you who must learn  _ your _ place, Brother. Do not blame me for the precedent I observe when it is  _ you _ who is in the middle of it."

They sit in silence for a few tense minutes before Soobin sighs, a great exhale of air as if he were trying to push his worries out of his mouth, and stands up.

“Whatever the outcome,” Soobin murmurs, “I can only hope the best for you both.”

Soobin walks away, dark blue robes trailing behind him. Yeonjun rests his head back, looking at the ceiling, and closes his eyes to a flash of amber and a white, tiny smile.

“So do I,” he croaks.

* * *

They are at the hill again. Yeonjun feels ill-equipped, to put it lightly, every time he sits in the grass across from Beomgyu. Beomgyu seems to have no such qualms, greeting him with what seems like even larger enthusiasm every passing day.

“Can you tell me a story?” he asks this time, “I have heard some in town lately, and I wondered how yours would differ.”

“What kind do you want to hear?” Yeonjun says, hooking his arm on his leg.

“Whatever you want to tell me,” Beomgyu answers, leaning forward.

So Yeonjun tells him stories. He tells him stories until his throat is sore and scratchy, until the light is fading and the wind turns cold. He tells him stories of kings and warriors, of heroes and monsters and maidens and nymphs, of spirits, of bound hearts and broken ones. He tells him stories that he’s told a million times and a few he never has, tells him the ones with dozens of different tellings and ones passed down unchanged for generations.

Yeonjun is the God of Poetry, of Stories, and he is willing to share them all with Beomgyu.

But in the end, as Beomgyu smiles at him and presents him with another flower, that is all they are. Stories. Made to be told. Made to impart a piece of wisdom, to speak of the works of heroes, or sometimes just to entertain.

And although warmth bubbles underneath his skin, he cannot yet share something more.

“Shall I tell you a story as well?” Beomgyu wonders, “It seems awfully unfair, for you to tell me so many. I doubt I know any story that you do not.”

“That is most likely true,” Yeonjun admits, lips quirking, “But I would not mind. It is always an honor to hear others tell stories.”

Beomgyu’s shoulders sag in relief, eyes crinkling at the corners, “I will do my best, then.”

Beomgyu’s way of telling stories is not as fluid as his own. It is full of staggering breaths as he runs out of air, of suppressed laughter at his own jokes as well as personalized sound effects to add to the mood. It is not serious nor poised, as Beomgyu moves his hands along to mime certain events.

And yet Yeonjun finds himself laughing anyway, and feeling a small amount of despair at the struggles, enraptured in Beomgyu’s short tale that he has most definitely heard before. He plays along with his attempts to include him in the telling, calls out and reacts at the appropriate moments, and finds his chest fluttering weakly as Beomgyu winds down for the ending.

“I hope it was to your liking,” Beomgyu says. However, he does not wait for feedback; instead, he grabs three of his flowers and begins weaving them together, contently sitting in companionable silence. 

Yeonjun is a little surprised. Most of those who tell stories to him seek validation on their skills, confirmation that they met or surpassed his expectations. It is a little refreshing to hear a story told for the sake of the story and the audience, rather than the storyteller’s.

So he follows Beomgyu into quiet placitude, observing him work through the pile of flowers until he has a woven crown made of splashes of oranges, reds, greens, and blues. No flower was spared. It is fairly beautiful, Yeonjun notes.

As soon as Beomgyu puts the crown up it falls apart, scattering petals on the ground, until Beomgyu is left holding stalks and nothing else.

“Oh well,” Beomgyu hums after a moment, “It was fun while it lasted.”

Yeonjun bursts out laughing, and topples back into the grass.

* * *

He has found, over years, over millennia of living and seeing the world that he exists in, that he isn’t particularly patient. Yeonjun has loved and been loved, little pockets of mortal lifespans where he’s done whatever his lovers wanted of him. He falls fast because the time he has to do so with someone that is not an immortal leaves no time for hesitation.

Yeonjun has loved and been loved, but he has also loved and not been loved in return. He is never quite sure what to do in those cases, save keep trying. It does not turn out well to try to force it, but in those times there is nothing in his mind except the fiery little sun of affection in his chest. 

For him, the consequences are minimal. He is a God; he  _ is _ the sun, and he _ is _ the light, and he is medicine, and so much more. As long as those and time exist, he will live and he will heal. But the mortals are nothing but flesh and bones, and the sun’s heat is not made to be kind. Sometimes his patience is lost, and unfortunate beginnings meet unfortunate ends.

Time can heal him, but Yeonjun remembers.

He wonders if that is why, now, when looking at Beomgyu and finding nothing but earnest friendliness and an inscrutable mind, kind gifts and no expectations...

If that is why, now, he hesitates.

* * *

The ground of the forest is covered in leaves and vines, reaching from tree to tree with no clearly defined path. Among the trees Yeonjun can hear the howling of the hunting dogs, their snuffling against the ground, and the Hunters sweeping the area in search of the boars they are chasing.

Beside him, Beomgyu leans against a tree, poking around the underbrush as if their prey would burst out from behind a single leaf. A little ways away Soobin watches incredulously, looking between the two of them as if to confirm that he’s seeing the right person. Yeonjun feels an urge to sit him down with a bowl of soup, to help repair his dizzied mind.

A dog howls. Surprisingly, Beomgyu is the first to move, silently dashing in the direction of the sound and avoiding crushing leaves underfoot so as to not make noise. Yeonjun and Soobin are close behind, sporting matching helpless grins at the rush of thrill that crawls up their spines.

Two boars appear in their sights, cornered into a clearing by the dogs and Soobin’s Hunters. Yeonjun pauses at the edge of the clearing, knocking an arrow into his bow in one smooth movement, taking a moment to aim, and lets it fly loose off his string. To his left and a little ways ahead, Beomgyu throws the spear in his hands at the same time as well as at the same boar, back muscles pulling tight right before he tosses it. Yeonjun sees Soobin’s arrow flit past him and towards the other boar, and his heart pounds as he hears the solid sound of the three weapons hitting home near-simultaneously.

The boars fall to the ground with heavy thuds, snatching a cheerful whoop out of Beomgyu’s lungs and a startled laugh out of Yeonjun. Yeonjun can see Soobin startle and look at them out of the corner of his eye as Beomgyu turns around and jumps at him, wrapping his arms around Yeonjun’s shoulders and crowing victory into his ear.

“Alright,” Yeonjun soothes, “We must find out who struck the killing blow, before we celebrate.”

“What do we wait for, then?” Beomgyu pulls away, nimbly turning around and weaving between the hounds, waving their snuffling snouts away from the boar. Soobin calmly retrieves his own arrow, wiping it clean on a cloth at his waist before muttering a rapid prayer with his eyelids shut.

“Oh,” Beomgyu says, “It’s still alive.”

Yeonjun kneels beside him and sees what he means; the boar’s chest moves rapidly in and out, pained and tense and still everywhere else, almost afraid to move.

Yeonjun unsheathes a knife in his satchel as Beomgyu carefully grabs the creature’s head, “Neither of us struck true, it seems. How awful of us, to leave it in such pain.”

“It is fairer to the animal to die fighting,” Yeonjun sighs, “Now we must finish what we started.”

The boar lets out a wheezing squeal, before all its muscles tense and relax, haunches drooping. Yeonjun looks up to see a slightly stained cloth, and Soobin’s hand extending out to lend it to him. He takes it, running it down his blade to clean it.

“Its pain will not go to waste,” Soobin points out, “Honor its sacrifice.”

“Always,” Beomgyu whispers. He lifts the boar’s body up, and Yeonjun stands up to help him heft it onto his back.

They move to a secluded place in the grove, tying ropes to both boar's feet and inverting their bodies to drain their blood, and Beomgyu goes to look for firewood with the Hunters in tow. Soobin and Yeonjun sit in front of the firepit, alone save for the hounds, as they wait for them to return.

“He is different from your past attempts,” Soobin says, direct, “Not averse to your company, for one.”

“I’m aware,” Yeonjun responds curtly. Soobin scrutinizes him, but does not question further.

He debates with himself, then, if Soobin really deserves to be so suspicious. His coldness may be more unwarranted than he personally thinks, if the nagging little voice muttering viciously at him in his head is to be believed. He agreed to hunt with them, after all, and has been nothing but kind to Beomgyu. With that in mind, Yeonjun relents.

“He is very passionate,” he starts, “As I think you’ve seen. One of, if not the only mortal who is as eager to hunt with me as you are.”

Soobin blinks at him, stunned, before smiling minutely, “I could tell. He is very skilled.”

“Not only in hunting. He excels at most sports.”

“Does he?” Soobin’s mouth makes a round ‘oh’, “Are you…”

“I am proud of him,” Yeonjun inhales deeply, “I think I will tell him soon.”

Soobin looks at him pityingly. Yeonjun swallows down his protests to it as Soobin speaks, “How do you think he will respond?”

The ground shudders with approaching footsteps and a familiar joyous voice as Yeonjun looks down into the fire pit.

“I do not know.”

A freezing wind blows over them.

* * *

Predictably, or as much as it can be, a meeting on the shores of the river earns less fish and more wet clothing. The boat lies innocently tied to a tree, unused, as Yeonjun cups some water in his hands and throws it through the air, light spilling through the droplets and glistening as the splash greets Beomgyu’s face with unparalleled joy.

“Ah!” Beomgyu laughs, but instead of high, tinkling bells, it more resembles beating a barrel full of metal with one of Hephaestus’ tools. Yeonjun finds it stunning in a way he is not quite sure how to word outside of verse, “You are sneaky!”

“Or perhaps you are just slow,” Yeonjun teases, and moves to the side as Beomgyu hooks his hand beneath the water and sends a shower of water his way. Once again, predictable but not. He expected the reaction, but without using the gift of prophecy he cannot imagine what will truly happen. 

Thinking of the gift brings other thoughts to mind, of other things about Beomgyu he could find out, and they sour his mood enough that he fails to dodge the next strike, falling victim and to the ground as Beomgyu tackles him into the water. 

“If I am slow,” Beomgyu chortles, sitting up between Yeonjun’s legs, “Then you must move about as fast as dirt, for me to catch you.”

Yeonjun forces a frown onto his brow, “Is that so? Would you like to join me in being dirt, in that case?”

As Beomgyu splutters an apology, Yeonjun’s lip twitches into a half smile, leaning up on his elbows and observing a ray of sunlight bounce delicately off Beomgyu’s honey-golden skin. He praises that ray. It does good work, and lands on what is important.

“And-...Ah, You are not…” Beomgyu pauses, top lip turning up, “That was not kind of you.”

Yeonjun winks-or, he believes he does.The way Beomgyu's mouth scrunches up lets him know he was not quite successful in that endeavor. Miffed, he moves back and stands, extending a hand to help Beomgyu do so as well. It is less because he believes he needs the help and more about how small his hand feels in his. Under any other circumstances he would say so, but-

Beomgyu looks at him, blinking, “Shall we fish properly now, then?”

Yeonjun nods before he registers what Beomgyu says, and is left standing when he lets go and leaves him to go untie the boat. His hand clenches around empty air involuntarily. Unexpected.

Yeonjun approaches the boat and jumps inside, thinking,  _ unpredictable. _

The ship sways a little under his weight, paddles rattling against the bottom. Beomgyu undoes the knot skillfully, utilizing a root on land to jump into the boat, and pulls the line in with Yeonjun behind him to avoid him falling overboard. After that it’s a question of moving out into the river, stable current leading them downstream.

“There is a small lake nearby,” Beomgyu says, pushing an oar into the water, “But I thought you would enjoy the trip by water, as the river flows into it.”

“It is softer than land,” Yeonjun agrees, “There is nothing wrong with some relaxation before fishing.”

Beomgyu gives him a lopsided smile, “You know what would make it even better?”

“What?”

Beomgyu answers him by breathing in deeply, opening his mouth, and belting out the first few notes of a drinking song for soldiers that has gained traction in the last fifty years or so from what Yeonjun knows. A delighted little sound escapes him, joining in with the harmony of the easy melody.

The lyrics are not all that complicated at first glance, a short little tale of a Spartan man falling in love with a Naiad and getting spirited away, warning about the dangers of drinking as the wine matches with the Naiad’s “waters”. But Yeonjun can feel the years of different circumstances and tests changing their meaning, developing it and transforming it into what Beomgyu cheerfully sings between eager teeth. And the sense of companionship that just singing it together brings is hard to ignore in and of itself, even with oars instead of cups in hand.

It does make the journey better, Yeonjun thinks, and he knows Beomgyu knows it too by the look he gives him as they turn into the lake and sail out towards the middle of it. Yeonjun tosses his head, hair standing up like a field of flax ready for harvest, and blinks at him. Beomgyu’s eyes follow something that Yeonjun can’t see, losing a little focus, before he smiles.

“It is hard to forget you are the God of the Sun,” Beomgyu hums, “When you shine so brightly.”

Yeonjun hesitates in answering that, long enough that they reach the middle of the lake, and then Beomgyu is standing and pulling the net up, beginning to coil it around his arm for casting. Yeonjun swallows a sigh unbecoming of a deity and digs for the bucket of bait to throw out.

Soobin often tells him that fishing is an exercise of patience more than skill, but Yeonjun knows that he rarely goes fishing himself, rather choosing the thrill of a chase. Yeonjun understands the quiet joys in catching a boatful of fish after hours of waiting for the right moment, after long enough that his fingertips go numb from holding the net, and he appreciates that Beomgyu at least grants him joy enough to play along.

It’s after they catch a true netful of fish, where Beomgyu has to help him pull the net up and where he’s pressed against his side, cold from falling into the water and refreshing on Yeonjun’s always-warm-skin, that he considers saying what’s on his mind once and for all. He almost opens his mouth, and his arm moves to reach at Beomgyu’s shoulder, although his immortal heart pounds in his ears with a kind of not-terror (because he’s not afraid of anything, obviously), but Beomgyu loses his balance and pulls the net over them, soaking them down to the marrow of their bones as the fish twist and flip above them.

Yeonjun gasps for breath as he shoves his head out from under the net, though he could live without it, and tries to untangle himself from where the frigid lines cling to his limbs.

“Unfortunate,” he half-wheezes, teeth flashing into a pacifying smile as Beomgyu’s knee collides against his leg, “Are you alright?”

Beomgyu coughs, slipping free from under the net by pure virtue of a slim frame, “Not exactly.”

Yeonjun opens his mouth to ask, but a fish slides down and collides with his jaw, shutting it with a nasty click. Beomgyu chokes on a snort and buries his fingers into the netting, pulling it and releasing Yeonjun from its confines as he wipes at his face.

As Beomgyu snickers, teeth peeking out from between his lips and the corners of his eyes bunching up, what Yeonjun had on the tip of his tongue fizzles away with a sweet, numbing aftertaste.

Some other day.

**Author's Note:**

> you can yell at me @louderthanhome on twitter or on my cc: https://curiouscat.qa/louderthanhome  
> i've been working on this for Way too long


End file.
